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It’s straight out of a daydream. That’s what makes this so nonsensical. Walter in my texts. Walter driving me home. It was

the dumbest wish. Definitely not a when kind of wish. It was a true blue, never-in-a-million-years if-only kind of wish. Except it’s real.

I should be filled up to bursting, but it’s like my heart’s sprung a leak.

This unfinished sketch of a feeling.

I can’t stop looking at bus schedules. I’m in the back seat of Walter Holland’s mom’s Toyota Highlander, looking at bus schedules.

“It has to be the 8:35 a.m., right? I don’t think the other line even runs on Sundays.” I glance up. “So she’d be in White

Plains by 3:30 or so. We can totally make that.”

“Probably? Depending on traffic, I guess,” says Walter. “Sunday of Memorial Day weekend is kind of a wild card.”

“But she’d probably be stuck, too, right? So it’s fine.” I drum the edge of my seat. “I mean, it’s definitely going to be

fine.”

Mark pauses. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“What do you mean?”

The boys exchange quick sidelong glances, and Mark clears his throat. “Like, why do we need to beat Natalie home? What are

you worried will happen?”

“Nothing! I’m not.” I lean back, glaring at the back of his seat. “I just think it’s weird that she’d rather take a seven-hour bus ride than wait for Zora like a normal person.”

“Yeah,” Walter says vaguely. “I don’t know...”

“And, like, how is she getting home from White Plains? Is she going to be stuck making some shitty decision just because she

needs a ride?”

Walter hesitates. “You mean like—”

“She means Claire,” Mark says, meeting my eyes in the rearview. “Right?”

“Who’s Claire?”

“Natalie’s on-again, off-again—”

“ Ex- girlfriend,” I interject. “And she’s an actual ghoul.”

“Ah,” says Walter.

“She is!” It comes out weirdly choked.

“Oh, I believe you,” says Walter.

“It makes me crazy that Nat doesn’t see it. No one sees it!” I press both fists to my chest. I feel like I’m on the verge

of eruption. “Like, the fuckery’s right there! In plain sight.”

“Sounds familiar,” says Walter.

I let out a startled laugh. “Yes! Huge Hayden energy.”

“Okay, no.” Mark twists around in his seat, peering at me through his glasses. “Claire’s not that bad—”

“Are you serious?” I smack my palms down.

“She’s not! She’s just—I don’t know, kind of immature. But well-intentioned, I think.”

“Marky Mark, she dumped Natalie at prom!”

“Wait—I have a question,” Walter says suddenly. “Speaking of prom.”

I freeze. “What about it?”

“Hold on, let me get past this guy.” Walter sits up straight, shoulders tense. Doesn’t say a word until we’re in the next

lane.

“Nervous driver?” Mark asks. There’s a smile in his voice.

“Nervous everything,” says Walter. “Anyway. I was just curious—obviously, you don’t have to answer this, but. Um. That video

you made—”

“Oh God.” I cover my face with both hands.

“No! Oh, Amelia, I’m sorry! I don’t mean it in a bad way—”

“Okay, you have nothing to be sorry about,” I say. “Fuck.”

Mark turns in his seat to grin at me, and I scowl at him.

“Seriously, don’t sweat it. Sorry—I wouldn’t have even brought it up if I thought—”

“No—listen. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—God. I didn’t think you saw that.”

Incredible, groundbreaking, et cetera et cetera. On a scale from one to crawling-out-of-my-skin, I’d say we’re roughly at

the level of sixth-grade sex ed.

He laughs. “How many singing prom invitations do you think I’m tagged in?”

“Please,” I say, “kill me.”

“Don’t kill her,” Mark says, turning to Walter. “Not here. Wait until we’re past Ithaca, at least.”

I mean, this is it, right? Peak mortification. Worse than the time I called Rabbi Weisenberg “Ribeye.” Worse than getting

my first period in Aunt Stacey’s bathroom with the mirrored walls. Not even kidding. This is literally worse than infinite

reflections of me with my pants down, trying not to drop my cousin’s junior tampon in the toilet.

Reader, I dropped it. And flushed it. And then the toilet clogged. But this is worse.

“I think,” I say faintly, “I dumbassed too close to the sun.”

He tilts his head to laugh, which makes his hair catch the sun through the windshield. I remember seeing a comment on one

of his videos once. Dude, your hair’s so red, it looks fake .

“Seriously, it’s fine! I was just curious about the backstory.”

“Backstory?”

“Like, was it some kind of dare? Did you lose a bet?”

“I wish it was a bet.” I rub my cheek. Can’t be healthy to blush this hard. Highly possible I’m overheating. “God, you probably

saw me in the audience and were like, oh, this fucking girl. ”

“What?” He laughs. “Not even close! First of all, I didn’t even recognize you right away, with the haircut.”

“Yup. New clown wig, same clown.” I tuck both hands behind my head, leaning back with a sigh.